Just not ready
by CassieAggie
Summary: Just not ready... [After experiencing a great tragedy, when do we know we're truly ready to move on...] A clinical conversation between Spencer and no one in particular...


**Just not ready...**

_[After experiencing a great tragedy, when do we know we're truly ready to move on...]_

Okay, this is how it went...

I met a woman, her name wasn't important.

She was attractive, but not obviously so.

She could hold a conversation; smart enough - but that wasn't important either right then.

We had shared a bottle of wine and a glass of port and chatter had ensued in abundance. I didn't give her my title and I omitted the place of my employment.

She was a curator for an art gallery - but that didn't factor into my interest at the time.

It was a Saturday night, or 'date night' as people lead me to believe.

A cab pulled up, we both got in. There was flirting, but nothing too outrageous.

She was 3 weeks out of a messy break-up; I was still reeling from my great loss, the loss of my first love. The only real love I had known; but love wasn't a precipitating factor that ruled my emotions that evening.

Last names were not exchanged; it was a fair bet that addresses wouldn't be given either.

We came to a mutual agreement to go halves in a hotel room. How very mature of us.

I got things underway at the front desk.

Room 411, there it was.

I fumbled with the key-card; I even managed to drop it once, of course.

We walked in; it wasn't what I had expected. It wasn't seedy or grimy - in fact, it probably more upbeat than my own abode.

She excused herself and disappeared into the bathroom. I dispensed with my jacket, vest and tie.

She emerged, not looking any differently than when she went in. She slipped off her shoes and was instantly 2 inches shorter.

Talk ensued; what did we talk about? I can't really say.

There was awkward eye contact across the room and then slowly but surely we came together. Mouths found each other and bodily fluids were exchanged.

I noted, for the first time, the length of her nails, as they dug gingerly into the flesh of my back as she pulled my shirt free from my trousers.

She smelled good; sweet in fact. I didn't know the name of her scent but it was flowery. An old song was whirling through my mind, 'Kisses Sweeter Than Wine' - as her tongue pushed past mine to probe. I didn't have a problem with that at all.

I pulled her hair free from its clasp and felt it fall across her shoulders as I began to nuzzle the crick between her neck and collar bone.

I felt her fingers fumbling at my pants belt. My breathing had become erratic. I was thinking, 'so this is what it's like for Morgan... to meet women, leave with them, make love to them and walk away - no strings attached.

To be fair, I'd never really seen him in action but it was implied - _all_ the time. He had been referred to as a player on more than one occasion, not that I judged him on those grounds. Our jobs made it hard to have lasting relationships, or even to _find_ relationships.

She was unbuttoning my shirt and I could feel her fingers trembling a little; was that from excitement and/or adrenalin or was she scared? I had no idea. I didn't ask.

Rossi would be proud of me right about now I reasoned. He had urged me to move on. It had been 5 months now. I still had no clue what the time-frame was for this kind of thing, what was acceptable. All I knew is that I needed to be touched, held, caressed... wanted.

Her dress slipped to the floor and I caught a glimpse of a pale yellow bra with tiny roses adorning it. I imagined the panties matched, I don't actually recall.

I wondered how old she was. You would think that would be one piece of information that would be important, or at least interesting to know. I guessed in my head she was at least 25. She had conversed about what college she had attended and I do recall that she had been at the gallery for at least 2 years... She was obviously old enough to know what she was getting herself into. That eased my mind somewhat.

Emily had called me long distance; she didn't seem to think I was at risk by not getting over what I had been through; in fact she told me that these things took time - however much time it took, there were no wrongs or rights - there was just time and there was _me_.

She took my hand and led it to her breast. Her body was warm, soft, tender. It felt nice. She felt nice beneath my long fingers and it must have felt nice for her too - her breathing had changed, it was quicker.

She was biting my bottom lip and tugging at my boxers. I don't know why exactly, but a thought of Diane came crushing into my brain... I had to endure that kiss with her - it was meant to save ... no, I can't say her name, not here, not now. I can't think about that right now. Stop it.

Jennifer had sat me down some weeks ago and told me that it was time for me to smile again. She said I had to get back to living in the here and now and to try and put the past behind me; to find something to smile about again. I always smiled when I watched her with Henry, how could I not. She encouraged me to find that smile from another source, to feel that emotion from elsewhere.

Our bodies came together as one; naked skin, exploring hands, hungry mouths. This was certainly here and now. There was no past here.

Who was I kidding? There was past all around me.

Every time I let myself, I was thinking about the past. I was having conversations with my workmates. I was living through their words.

This wasn't about me at all. I wasn't engaged in experiencing anything here. I had this woman in front of me - no, now we were on the bed. I didn't care to know her name or anything about her. It didn't matter to me; none of that mattered.

Protection found its way into the encounter; obviously I was in the present enough to make that happen. Why couldn't I just let go and feel, just this once.

She was talking to me... Oh god, I hadn't been paying attention. What was she saying?

'Spencer... I can't do this. I am so sorry... I thought I was ready... but I just can't.'

The words echoed around the room like headlines bouncing off a newspaper. She was scrambling to get off the bed.

She was gathering her clothes. Suddenly I felt very vulnerable, exposed - and not just nakedly so - but emotionally. I gathered the bed clothes around myself.

She was still apologising, all the while pulling her clothes back on.

My breathing had simmered. I was starting to get focus back.

Eventually I found some words, "It's fine... really. Please, stop apologising."

She was on the brink of tears; I didn't want that... I didn't need that.

She was bleating something about the room and not to worry about the cost; perhaps she should reimburse me... she owed me at least that. That was the last of my concerns. I dismissed the notion and that seemed to relieve her a little. Did she think I was some guy who would go ballistic because I hadn't gotten what I came here for? Did she think I would get angry because now I had a hotel room for the night that was no longer needed. Truth be known, I had no idea how these things worked. Would I still stay in the room, even after she left. What was the protocol in such situations.

She was heading for the door, shoes in hand and mascara stains on her rosy cheeks. I managed to stop her from turning the door knob. "It's perfectly okay... it's not your fault if you're not ready. There is no harm done here, none."

She turned to look at me. "If I were ready, trust me... you are exactly the person I would be looking to do this with. I can't believe you're not angry or upset; I know most guys would be."

I wasn't most guys, was I? She didn't know me from Adam but obviously she had a formed notion of what 'most guys' would do in this scenario. I smiled politely at her declaration but I didn't offer her any parting words. What do you say in this situation. What could I say?

She left.

It was getting on for midnight when I decided to leave the hotel room. It seemed stupid to stay the night there, alone. I had a perfectly fine bed in my apartment where I could sleep.

I had taken a shower in the room. Not sure why; there was no reason to. It wasn't as though I had to wash away sweat-laden evidence that I had participated in consensual sex with some random.

Perhaps I was washing away guilt. What did I have to feel guilty about? I let that thought sit with me.

When I eventually got home I flicked the switch on the kettle. I was feeling nauseous from the red wine and port; I figured a cup of black coffee couldn't do me any harm.

So, what did I have to feel guilty about? I posed that question a dozen different ways but no answers were forthcoming.

I knew instinctively that the answers wouldn't present themselves because I already had the answers. I had had the answers all along. I knew earlier in the night, when I couldn't bring myself to say Maeve's name in my mind - all the while there was a stranger in my arms, naked and exploring avenues of my body that I assumed only Maeve would explore. I hadn't allowed myself to go there and I knew then, as I did now, that guilt was playing a huge role. I knew logically I wasn't betraying anyone, least of all myself but illogically I was betraying the memory of someone I longed to hold, longed to make love to, longed to kiss and longed to have them love me.

If she hadn't gotten in to a state of panic at what was about to happen between the two of us on that hotel bed, would I have gone through with it. All indicators point to yes. I was willing and able and ready to participate, that was for sure. Would I have regretted it afterwards. Probably. Would I be feeling worse now if I had? Would the encounter have let me feel what I was yearning for in the moments leading up to the decision by her to end it. These were the questions I couldn't answer, what never be able to answer.

It was now out of my hands.

So, that's how it happened. My clinical presentation of what could have been. Do I feel that I'm ready to move on or am I just not ready.


End file.
